Saturday, September 17, 2016

Saturday Poetry

I have come to a still, but not a deep center,A point outside the glittering current;My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,My mind moves in more than one place,In a country half-land, half-water.I am renewed by death, thought of my death,The dry scent of a dying garden in September,The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.What I love is near at hand,Always, in earth and air."- Theodore Roethke, The Far Field